


呕心沥血

by moringa_and_honeyblossoms



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-14 18:51:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20605631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moringa_and_honeyblossoms/pseuds/moringa_and_honeyblossoms
Summary: 呕心沥血 — to spit heart and spill blood.yet where is his heart in these hours?





	1. every resting minute...

**Author's Note:**

  * For [camelliatrain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/camelliatrain/gifts).

> this one goes out to marin here's to taking your heart and crushing it. love ur caspar my dear bitch.

Linhardt has always adored the afternoons.

When the midday sun shines brightly, burning red against closed eyelids... when the day is at its warmest, permitting him to rest and shut eyes against all of the devastation raining down upon the world; under the sun, he is at ease. The image of as much is he now, sprawled on the earth with the rays soft embrace against his robes as they eagerly suckle every trace of warmth from the air around him. There is peace to him in this moment, so long as one remains at a distance; they might believe him to be taking one of his most iconic naps, at the worst of times. For no, although he is sprawled upon the earth in the most heated moments of the afternoon, Linhardt is not in a clearing free of turmoil.

Death clings to this place, finding its home in the frames of those that litter the clearing. Flowers? No, there are only the splatters of blood upon soil desperate for any hydration, even if it is at the cost of those that stride upon it; Linhardt is on a battlefield, one of those that still breathe. Corpses surround him, and those numbers will he join soon; for there is a lance protruding from his chest, and a river of blood trailing down and into the earth as though a path of rose petals seducing onlookers into viewing his demise.

Dead? Not quite, yet he shudders with every breath whilst forcing self not to panic, not to worry; Linhardt acutely struggles, with staying at ease. Never before has he had an issue with resting, yet now of all times is it more difficult than ever to shut his eyes — the images that come in his dreams haunted him before. Images of the one that left him, Caspar recruited by Byleth on behalf of the Alliance... Caspar, his truest friend, now one that stands against him.

_Did you think of me, Caspar? Did you think of me as you entered into the fight with the professor? Did you forget about me, and all that we have shared... or did you remember me, and decide that you would rather stand against me than against the professor?_

It hurts, every inch of his body declares exhaustion as Linhardt slumps into the ground, yet even his eyes wide open conjure images of the one with eyes the colour of sky. Is that...? No, it could not be; the general would have retreated long ago from the battle, to celebrate a victory declared atop the bodies of those once called friends. Delusional, Linhardt must be conjuring delusions within his final moments, hallucinations in the form of a mirage... a cough, and there is blood spilling past lips once more, a reminder that he is alive, yet not for long — a reminder that he is fractured pieces, wood that has been axed to serve as tinder and now forced to await his eventual burning.

In his dreams, when he lies alone at night attempting to chase the thoughts of blood from his mind and the recollection of those he has killed weighing him down as though their bodies stack upon him, Caspar is the sweetest of comforts. Caspar, the impish smiles in their Academy days a declaration of his plotting something likely to end disastrously; Caspar, whom he loved with all of his being yet never spoke those three words to. In his dreams, he is caught in the embrace of his friend that now is on the other side of a battlefield, one of the victors of this fight... at the cost of Linhardt.

Yet, all the same, what sweeter way to die is there than this-? Would Linhardt have it any other way? In no circumstance save this can his death benefit Caspar... if to die is to please his love, then he can only pray to the goddess that the darkness will enrobe him faster, leave no possibility of his surviving this. "Linhardt..." He can hear Caspar's voice, beckoning him to die more quickly, to succumb to his fate and not to dare be another one of those that are now his sworn enemies. "Linhardt." His demands, more insistent by the moment, more pressing than the lance through his chest. "Linhardt!" _Fret not, my love, I will die for you soon enough..._

"Who did this to you?" And as vividly as though he is more than an image of Linhardt's dying mind, there is Caspar leaned over him, his armour heavy and dripping onto already red-bloomed chest more blood by the second. Bittersweet is the smile that comes to Linhardt's lips, stained as though by wine — far more blissful is the thought of it being but a beverage, rather than his own life force bubbling up. A hand arises, tremoring lightly as Linhardt brushes digits over the space that he expects to be empty; met with the harsh metal of his armour, along with the realisation that this is real, his love is _here-_

"It was you," speaks Linhardt, just as simply as though he says the clouds above them are white, not a hint of silver or reason to trust in them. His voice is soft, tremoring and weak as he coughs up ever more blood, wishing that he could please Caspar by closing his eyes for his final nap. "Don't you recall, 'Spar? Taking this lance from one of the officers' corpses and driving it through my chest, then moving away to declare your next victim?"

"No-"

"And you laughed, just as you always do throughout battle, so ready and willing to fight if only to cling to that which you believe in-"

"_No_-"

"I fell to the earth, and you did not even spare a glance to me, leaving me to die-" 

"No!" There are tears forming, the pale blue eyes glossed over as though they truly are the surface of the ocean to which Linhardt has compared that glimmering azure countless times. "_Linhardt, please_..."

The loudest of the Black Eagles (now Golden Deer, bitterly reminds Linhardt) is quiet, his voice cracking like glass and leaving the pair of them with the shrapnel raining down upon them, just as blood leaks into the grass that once hungered, and now thirsts for less... "I love you, Caspar von Bergliez."

It is the first time, Linhardt realises, that he has confessed as much; that he has declared anything amorous, formerly having left so much of his lovesick ramblings to be contained within his journals, rather than ever being spoken aloud. Caspar read not one, never knew — yet he deserves to, deserves to know the excess of altruistic affections that know no bounds, know nothing more than themselves as inevitable when it comes to loving Caspar.

"Which is why I will die for you."

"Linhardt, no, please, please, _Lin..._" Evergreen eyes are hazy now, their life that Caspar once believed just as sure as their peculiar shade slowly fading as he holds his gaze. The world darkens for the both of them, one seeing it fringed at the edge with the night to which he succumbs; one seeing death suddenly in the eyes of the one that has always despised it, hating the blood that he attempts to staunch with hands pressing at chest, coming away sticky with the _volume_ of it all. "This isn't what I want! I don't want you to die, come on, come on, stay alive for me, _please Lin, I love you..._"

Yet Linhardt does not hear it; his eyes are shut, his eyelids glimmering faintly with the droplets of moisture clinging to his lashes: he is shining with the tears that fall from Caspar's eyes, as the sky-eyed man attempts anything within his power to keep him alive, to keep him whole, to keep the one individual that he has never stopped loving from falling apart. 

"_Linhardt, please wake up..._"

Caspar should know better than to think that the sleepiest of scholars will awaken.


	2. every waking hour...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> why does the phoenix arise from the ashes, and not the man...?

How can he be so exquisite, even with eyes shut and the blood drained from his body now a thick of dried crimson, forming a compliment of verdant locks with the intensity of red upon his chest?

"_He's not going to make it._" The words are recalled ever so vividly now as Caspar runs hands through hair that clings to his palms, his fingers still drenched by Linhardt's blood and sweat that has since run cold soaking through onto the pillow beneath him. No, he is not to be alive come morning, these are his last breaths that escape — and for all of the demands of the general, not one resulted in their being willing to help one of the Empire's forces. They have more important matters to attend to; as though Linhardt is not the furthest thing from insignificant, as though there is anything that matters more than the concept of his love. _Has it really been so long, since they met...? Since he first heard the soft sounds of Linhardt's laugh, rather than the barely audible breaths that sustain him?_

When first faced with blood courtesy of his own weapon, Linhardt collapsed to the ground, haunted by the sight of it; a cry tore from him as though he was the one stabbed through, And Caspar? He laughed, told him that it was nothing to fret over... yet now, he realises just how _sickening_ bloodshed happens to be. For when it is Linhardt's blood, when it is his fault that he suffers, that is when it becomes a gruesome affair; a reminder that his morals are skewed, that he only cares when the one being hurt is one that he cares about. Still... still, he cannot help but press his lips to forehead, wishing that he was afforded the chance in life to kiss the lips now soaked by death.

"Linhardt..." Has it been years since he was alive? Yet no, he heard the confession of love past those lips just today, yet it seems as though forever has passed since they were children, young and innocent and not standing on opposite ends of the war. Years, years have passed since any happiness defined them, since the carefree smile that comes with Linhardt's naps occurred throughout his waking hours. War is a brutal thing, one that makes men out of boys and turns the naps that Linhardt so cherishes into the only means by which he can escape the weight of corpses abound... and anything, Caspar would do anything to help him to see the light that seems so many miles away. _If he would only open his eyes..._

Perhaps then, the words that Caspar has never managed to put eloquence to will be summarised in the depths of eyes drowned long ago by tears, now bitterly dry without a trace of hope within him. Linhardt was the poet, his being a practical musicality, never prose for he could not be refined by verse. For within no confines could one ever fully summarise the dancer's ease of steps soft against the earth, of voice just as soft as the faintest of breezes carrying a spring day's flowery aroma.

In every book, as one individual makes confessions of love, the one who sleeps awakens and gently teases at the words uttered for them, and only them. Yet as Caspar speaks, there is no signal of life, only the breathing that grows softer by the moment — weaker, life falling from him as do a rose's petals whilst the flower wilts. He is wilting, and as weak as he is he still remains beautiful, the light falling on his skin like the sun that he has always adored...

"I'm sorry," whispers Caspar, his voice soft and tremoring as though it does not come from himself at all. No, it is altered just as his entire being has been from the very moment that he met Linhardt. For before him, Caspar knew happiness solely by the illusions of a smile that would come to him whilst training, and not from the upturn of his friend's lips as he spoke of the cats abound. No, he did not truly appreciate the warmth of the sun nor the heavy weight of Linhardt napping against his shoulder, not until it was too late for him to say it, until now. "You said we'd be friends forever, Lin, well... you're, you're not being a very good friend right now!"

If he is mad at Linhardt, Caspar can pretend as though he is not mad with himself for not having insisted that Linhardt join him in transferring sides throughout the war; if he is upset, the illusion of his not despising himself for having been the one to murder the light in his life. He should have fought harder to keep him by his side, for while being on his side would have resulted in Linhardt needing to see more of the battles that he despises, _he would still be alive..._ yet there is no time to pause for regrets when he only has so long to confess to his love whilst he still lives.

"Remember when we met and I collided into you and you apologised, and insisted that it was your fault when it wasn't?" Caspar's lips are so close to Linhardt's forehead as though he attempts to deliver his words through contact, rather than through actually speaking them as do most mortals. His gaze is upon the chest that now stutters rather than breathing, a movement that he is not sure whether he hallucinates or not — which is more haunting, the concept that he is alive and soon to be dead, or that his being alive is nothing more than an illusion? “Why... why have you always let me hurt you, 'Hardt?” 

Caspar knows the answer — that it is because Linhardt loves him just as surely as he in turn adores the green eyed wonder, finds beauty in him just as easily as he breathes, yet it is not as though Linhardt will offer him an answer in this circumstance. For he is dying or dead, and so long as Caspar clings to the first option he needn't say goodbye to the one that he loves; hence, why he torments himself throughout this exchange, his confessions to a dying man. One that loves him, one that would do anything for him... _Linhardt, when I said that I would die for you, I never wanted you to do the same for me..._

Caspar's words merge together until he knows not what he is saying, instead confessing every inkling that occurs to his mind; soon enough, he leans forward against the rise and fall of stomach, falling asleep to the slow rhythm that is his breaths... his breaths, that will not be present when he awakens. “I love you, Linhardt...” 

And as Caspar wobbles upon the precipice between being awake and dreaming, a delivery occurs in the form of words practically a gift: an “I love you”, gentle and yet crashing into him with the weight of oceanic waves. Linhardt trembles, as arms too weak to wrap around Caspar instead resort to fingers trailing up and down arm, the azure of his gaze glimmering with the faintness of hope as Caspar looks up to see him breathing, to see his eyes _open_...

“And here I thought that, for the first time, you were sleeping while I wasn't.” For it is true, that Caspar has spent hours on end awake whilst a sleeping friend rested against him, observed and flicked on the nose the one sleeping through classes... always to be disturbed out of his rest, at the end of the day. Yet all the same, what could stop him from observing and adoring the peace that would come over his features as his beloved rest claimed him? Nothing, nothing could stop Caspar from loving Linhardt — not death, and not anything within this life or the thousands to come after it.

“You're alive...” Wonder, it is a childlike thing that seizes his features and pulls them into a wide smile, instinct driving him to move toward flinging arms around neck in an embrace before deciding against that, realising that he would only do more damage than that which he has already caused. “I'm sorry, Lin, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry I never meant for this to happen _I love you_-” 

Linhardt's lips crash against his, insistent and with the coppery tang of death and blood clinging to them; at first strong, and then weakening as his eyes shut, as his fingers fall away from wrist, as Caspar can only remain helpless audience to darkness claiming him once more- no, _no_, how could any goddess let this occur...? And yet, how many of those that have fallen beneath his weapons have had families of their own, loved ones that would mourn? Linhardt is exceptional, but that does not make him an exception to the rule of conscience, that does not mean that he of all people will not die just the same as every other has beneath his practised assaults.

Caspar expects there to be a dead man beneath him when he draws away, and puts off the inevitable for as long as he can, lips against those that do not move against his own feeling acutely wrong. He sins, a heathen in a world where the truest of his sins comes back to the fact that he has been a merciless force, one without the shreds of remorse that Linhardt cannot help but embody. Oh, to go back to the academy days wherein death and battle were nothing more than a game, something fun rather than an inevitable chore... but alas, there is only so much that Caspar can receive from this life. Had the general known that he would have to choose between victory and keeping alive the one that he is irrevocably in love with, he would have chosen the second option a thousand times over.

Yet when he moves away, there is a faint glow instead, Caspar's gaze cautiously reflecting that luminescence as he takes in the sight of light magic cautiously stitching its way through Linhardt's skin. _But who...?_ There is no other in the room, no one save the two of them; Caspar cannot begin to conjure the words to describe the relief of seeing Linhardt slowly brought back together, yet he speaks anyway. What sort of Caspar would he be, not to speak in spite of every word practically being wrong?

“Every day.” As children, Linhardt would speak in a voice as soft as the winds, as the tenderness of his embrace; Caspar, loud as the crashing storm. Now, the stammered breaths are the hurricane of audio whilst Caspar's words are nothing more than a soft, almost inquisitive demand. Demand, for him to live. Demand, for him to _know_ everything that he has dared to think of the man before him...

“I didn't want to drag you into the war by having you choose a side, but... every day, I thought maybe, _maybe_ if I brought you with me, you - you couldn't get hurt, but - but _I_ hurt you, _IkilledyouLinhardtandIneverevengottokissyou-”_ A sharp breath laces irreversibly with a sob, azure eyes watering with the salt of the ocean they imitate, tears slipping effortlessly and cruelly down cheeks.

“I never wanted to leave you, but... I would rather leave you than make you kill. I never wanted to hurt you, _Lin please_, I wish I was in your place — then there would still be naps waiting for you... cats and all those things that make you happy.” Linhardt still breathes, and the illusion of being heard is that which Caspar embraces, whether it is the truth or not. 

So long as Linhardt hears him, he needn't have the rampant worry knocking at his soul that results in skyrocketing pace of desperate heart. Every rap against the organ, and he is overwhelmed, hyperventilating and needing him to live such that he can prove it. 

Prove, rather than show, how much he is loved... prove everything, for he adores Linhardt and only desires for the truth to be seen within that ever green gaze. So long as he lives, there is a world to be seen and to be shared, practical pages to swim with the depths of his affection... a war to be fought, to come back from with a safe world wherein there will be no death to awaken Linhardt from the naps that are his illusions of peace.

Caspar would never in a thousand years have tired of Linhardt's voice and the present serves as no exception. No, he did not think that he could develop any more desperation for the softness of syllables as the quiet man caresses them, yet the present manages to serve as exception. Typically, they are treated as the winds, cherished but not obsessed over... but not now, no. Rather, he hangs on every word, each light in delivery yet heavily weighing upon a tender heart. “Sleep with me...” 

In their academy days, the embodiment of Sylvain might be upon Caspar as teases slipped past his lips, shaking his head at the peculiarity of the wording. Yet now, there is nothing of the sort; nothing more than the literal, than the knowledge of what Linhardt desires. Hands reach up, a child desiring to be lifted, and Caspar proves once more to be nothing more than Linhardt's, at the end of the day. Linhardt's, as he pushes back the sheets of the narrow cot on which Linhardt is lain, cautious and not daring to touch the man. If he touches, the blood might once again begin to pour onto the bed, leaving the pair of them drenched and only one living to tell of it. No... Caspar handles Linhardt as though he is formed of porcelain. 

As though a single breath could shatter him. 

Linhardt curls up, as though a kitten upon Caspar's chest as he leans against the man. Still is his clothing slicked with sweat and the carnage, Caspar not having bothered with changing... after the thick metal plates of armour were discarded, he could not be bothered from the side of his beloved. Caspar is soft, but he is a wondrous feeling of security, more so than the weight of the blanket atop him or a locked door. 

Words... typically, Caspar has too many in Linhardt's opinion, but instead he merely kisses the forehead of the man whose lashes cling to cheeks. A shy smile spreads over lips, a perfect rarity, and in turn the general mirrors the faintness of happiness upon flesh. 

He does not say a word... but his relief nonetheless spills out with every breath. He does not dare to develop a sentence, yet he is grateful to the goddess for sparing the one who is closer to heaven than a thousand loves. 

Caspar finds it difficult to be silent, to be embraced by sleep, yet presently he is claimed by that and the drowning force of his relief, and it leaves him _happy_ as at last, he joins Linhardt in the dream world. 

When he awakens, they both still breathe; reality and life intermingled to form a bliss, Caspar the one for once remaining adrift. Where Linhardt has spent hours in this repose, the worried general has spent as much time worrying, battling, desperately fighting against the pull of tiredness. In the pale, artificial light of the indoors, a single hand with deft digits reaches up, closing around cheek, the barest of flutters as a kiss is offered to cheek. 

When Caspar awakens, Linhardt's lips are on his flesh and a smile tugs at his own until it hurts his jaw. 

“You're alive.” 

“I am.” 

“I love you.” 

“Good.” 

Before Caspar can scold, can scramble back and tease further, he is being silenced by the soft lips appearing as though painted red upon porcelain. They are, all the same, welcome and cherished as the smile over features breaks out ever harder. 

“I'd do it again,” Linhardt whispers, and it catches Caspar off guard with slow blinks whilst attempting to decipher through the entirety of that which is so uncharacteristic. “I would die for you, Caspar.” 

“You aren't allowed!” Almost desperate cry, Caspar certain that he would not survive another scare, another tease of the concept of losing his love. 

“Love has a way of being not allowed, 'Spar.” 

And before he can get a word in edgewise, petal soft lips are dancing against his lips and blossoms are seeded from thence, blooming in roses over cheeks. Some part of Caspar knows that he is being manipulated, but he cannot bring himself to care, for at the end of the day he would allow Linhardt to take him over a thousand times. 

_ He is here._

Caspar is in love with Linhardt, with the manner in which air slips past his lips as he softly sleeps. His hands are to the touch immaculate, the embrace of a blanket on a cool night, and his eyes carry the depth of the forest within them. 

_ And every moment that they spend together?_

_ Caspar is in love with that, too; like it or not, Linhardt, he is yours._


End file.
